Chains of Moria
Prelude
The city was called Ixilon and had the pleasure of being one of the largest cities in the world. A world known as Moria. Stone-worked buildings lined every street, built in what was extensively a large square pattern around the castle which dominated the center. Lord Winthrom and his familial legacy had sat on the throne of Ixilon for generations now, though whispers blew threw the city that the rule of Winthrom was coming to an end, as Jyle Winthrom had (despite dozens of attempts) been unable to produce a male heir.
Of course, none of this was known to the man leaning against the cold stone wall in a back alley near the outskirts of the city. In fact the man knew nothing about anything in Ixilon or anywhere else in Moria, he didn’t even know where he was in general. All he knew was pain pounding away at his head, seemingly tugging on the backs of his eyes. It had been of great effort merely to stand up and lean on the wall, let alone anything else.
What had that light been? The last thing he remembered was an overwhelming light filling his vision, then agony that dropped him to his knees. He’d never had a migraine before, but he never knew they were this bad. It was no wonder that people called out from work due to them, he was nonfunctional behind the pounding in his skull.
Suddenly, as if someone turned off a light switch, the pain was gone. Cautiously he pulled his hands away from his head and blinked. Nothing. He was fine. Gently he tilted his head up and straightened taking in his surroundings for the first time. Smooth stone buildings pressed in on either side of him, leaving him standing in a small five-foot-wide gap between them. An alley, which opened out into a cobble stone street illuminated in the dark by light he could not source from here. This wasn’t his neighborhood, nor his town, he couldn’t think of any street made of cobble stones in Los Angeles, California.
Gingerly he stepped his way toward the street, still untrusting of the sudden relief from whatever had brough about that headache. The pain did not return, and he seemed to otherwise feel just fine. His thoughts where still blurry though, as if he had been in a deep sleep and forced awake. That feeling you get when you wake up and take a moment to remember what day it is, where you are, what you are supposed to be doing.
As he approached the street, he saw people walking by the alley, at least he thought they were people. They looked too tall and lengthy to him though, perhaps just a trick of his mind still drifting through a fog. Reaching the edge, he leaned against the corner of the building just as a giant dragon stepped into view.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
He screamed, and the dragon screamed jerking away from the building as it was trying to walk by.
“Good God man! Who do you think you are scaring people like that?” The dragon roared in disgust.
The man blinked and realized that while the creature before him looked like a dragon it wasn’t quite what the story books had always described. This creature was more...dragon-man? He didn’t have time to puzzle it out as the dragon snorted out a puff of smoke from its nostrils in a huff and stormed off, a think scaly tail swinging behind it.
“Excuse me, are you lost? Drunk?” Came a questioning voice.
The man turned to see a tall man with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail staring at him. The man wore a large apron over his very medieval styled shirt and pants that appeared to be some sort of hide. He held a small rectangular rug in his hand that he’d been shaking out into the street, and stared back at him as quizzically as the man from the alley was looking at him.
“I….don’t….was that a dragon?”
The tall man raised an eyebrow, “The Drakekin? What of it?” He sighed and set the rug in front of a nearby door. “Why don’t you come inside, I’m not open yet but you look like you need to sit down.” He opened the door and gestured inside. “Come.”
Carefully the lost man agreed and shuffled into the dimly light building. There were bench tables making three lines from front to back of the room, with wooden chairs lining either side. In the back was a wall of large barrels stacked carefully behind a chest high bar counter. As the tall man pushed past, he gave a snap of his fingers and lanterns lining the walls burst to life and filled the room with firelight. Another gesture and a fireplace in a corner also floofed to life.
The establishment owner gestured to a set of tall stools that lined this side of the bar counter. “Sit please.”
What choice did he have, he followed his way to the counter and sat. Without a word the owner grabbed a tall wooden mug and spun towards the barrels behind the bar. Each one was tapped with a spigot sticking from each. He filled the mug from one of the barrels and spun back to set the mug in front of the newcomer.
“Now then. What’s your story?” The bartender asked. “I see no collar nor branding on you, but your clothing his strange for these parts. You’re not an escaped slave from back East, are you?”
“Slave?” The man asked confused. “No I,”
The barkeep frowned, “Drink, wet the pallet and take a breath.”
The other man took a deep breath and took a sip of what had been poured into the mug. It was a dark color but not red or brown, in fact it sort of looked green in the flicker of the light. It smelt sweet though, so it was probably nothing dangerous. He took a sip and his eyes brightened, it tasted like apples and wine. It was good, but more importantly it jolted his mind and suddenly he remembered everything.
He looked at the bartender who still waited for a response. “My name is Steve Clark, and I was trying to kill myself.”